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Topic: Forrest Gump, Kung Fu, and Pulp Fiction... What do they have in common? (Read 2306 times)

I took a trip to Phoenix last summer. On the way back we just meandered our way around Arizona for three days using Flagstaff as a base. I saw the Lowell observatory, and in its telescopes the rings of Saturn, and the Moon brighter and bigger than life.

I walked the south rim of the Grand Canyon for miles and thought about how amazingly beautiful and indescribably huge it is.

I went to the Painted Desert, and the Petrified forest on the same day that Venus Transited the Sun. There was a telescope set up that projected the transit on a whiteboard, along with some 13 to 17 sunspots visible at the time. The Sun thru a telescope is so hot it'll burn a pencil, or light a match or if you were ignorant enough to look into it, melt your eye in a second.

I saw Meteor Crater, and thought about what would happen if another one hit like that.

I then stood on the corner in Winslow Arizona, and it was such a fine sight to see. I saw a flatbed Ford, and a bronze statue of a James Dean looking hitchhiker, and thought about just hitchhiking the rest of the way home.

But then as we traversed on further down the mother road and hwy 40 is what replaced most of ol 66... I saw the corpses of small towns that were bled dry by the new road. The movie "Cars" had really got it right about the destruction of these small towns by the new highway. I was saddened near to the point of tears at the sight of building after building shuttered, hotel after beautiful theme hotel rotting away in the dry heat... But then I saw some businesses that had fought to stay open or had reopened or had been born after the decline of the mother road, and I just knew, there were still guys like me who would hop off the highway at every chance and drive the mother road whenever I could.

I saw where the new highway overlapped the old road, I saw where it diverged, and I saw where it was swallowed up by the desert after becoming an unused section of nothingness... I saw telegraph poles off in the distance that went for miles along the ghost of the road, indicating that, once upon a great time... there had been a two lane, path of American dreams.

Logged

"Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugsand prays that he always will.

But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys all of his mates are doing time:

Married with three kids up by the ring roadsold their souls straight down the line.

I need to change my name on here, I was just signing up on a whim about oh 5 years ago before I even got a bike and was trying to think of something that I liked to be my avatar name... I am a Parrothead so I picked a really long one sonofasonofasailor82 and then shortened it to soasoas82 for ease of typing... I think its time I made a new change because I don't sail and I missed the boat on joining the coast Guard like my dad and grandfather... I hope y'all still recognize me... its gonna be GreenForce82

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"Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugsand prays that he always will.

But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys all of his mates are doing time:

Married with three kids up by the ring roadsold their souls straight down the line.

GreenForce82, graphs, charts and tables might accurately describe the state of America, but they couldn't come close to your description when it comes to conveying the way it must feel to be there. What might seem to be the decay of civilised society, the wreckage of our cherished past, can also be seen as the butterfly's discarded chrysalis ... but if we can't see the butterfly, we certainly can't infer it's beauty from the husk from which it emerges.Some days I see the butterfly, some days I don't.

I'm in the centre of Britain, the thin bit with mountains down the middle, and I'm on the west side. The reason I'm on the west side, is that my Grandad got the itch on the east side. Cycles.

" ... and there were no tarmac in those days, you know."

The words came from nowhere, and hung suspended in my mind, as I tried to get on with forming a mortise and tenon joint from two hefty pieces of iron bar. A familiar voice, or rather personality was behind the words, and the subject was not unfamiliar, but for a few moments, I resisted the distraction.After all, I was supposed to be making a Georgian style gate, not imagining messages from my long-departed Grandfather. However, working alone in an old mill, (if that is not too disparaging of my two feline companions whose company was much appreciated), is a situation which gives opportunity for much contemplation, and in that quiet zone where we are completely absorbed in our task, there is as you well know, much that comes unbidden to mind. Still the words remained, and as their significance slowly dawned I put my hammer down, and went to sit on the big stone just outside my workshop door where I did what passed for my thinking, to fit this new piece into the jig-saw story of my Grandfather's Trip To Morecambe.

He was apprenticed to Rudge Whitworth, the bicycle manufacturer, in the era when cycling was transforming his world, providing young men (and increasingly, women), with the escape velocity necessary to explore the universe of the surrounding towns and villages, and as a keen cyclist himself this must have been his dream job. Living in Bradford, he would have thought of Morecambe in a similar way to which we would perhaps think of Andalucia, or Provence, and like us, might have hoped to spend time every year in such a paradise. After all, Bradford at the beginning of the 20th century would have had it's sombre side, and Morecambe obviously attracted my Grandfather, to the extent that one week-end, he cycled there and, perhaps reluctantly, back again.

Next day however, none of his workmates would believe his story, which rather riled Grandad. The following Monday, a postcard arrived at the works, from him to his workmates, posted in Morecambe two days previously.

Although this was a familiar story in my childhood, I didn't give it much thought until later on -- when certain things started fitting together and making the outline of my own life a little clearer. Throughout the fifties and sixties, the family would pile into our little Austin A35 and spend the day in the Lakes District, or the Dales, and it was surprising how many of these trips would include a stop at Kirkby Lonsdale. Kirkby pulled Grandad like a magnet -- or a sweet old memory.I know he would have taken that route on his epic cycling excursions, since we didn't discover the short-cut through the Benthams until much later.So ... had he stopped by the river at Devil's Bridge? Cooled off in the Lune? Found romance?Something made it his lifelong favourite, and I never go there without feeling that his eyes are looking out through mine.

Dropping down into Over Kellet, he would have had his first good view of the bay, and I think he must have stopped at Wright's farm to buy milk, because in later years, living in Morecambe, (and doubtless bound for afternoon tea in Kirkby with my Grandma), they would always stop there to buy eggs, which is probably how they came to hear of the bungalow for sale nearby on Craggs Hill, and how I came to grow up there. The view over the bay was always a delight for me, different every day, yet I think it had an added significance for Grandad, reminding him of his first sight of the bay and the Lake District mountains, as he entered the village that first time.

Bit by bit, this teenager's cycling trips had become clearer in my mind, both as an example of the huge social transformation brought about by the bicycle, and the effect on me personally of this single example. The sudden interruption of my gate-building, the words still flapping like a line of washing in my head, the vividness of the picture I now saw, of a single-speed bicycle travelling 60 or so miles over a rough unmetalled road, made things clearer. As I sat on my thinking stone, the final piece of the jig-saw fell with a crash.

Grandad was born in 1897, so it is most likely that the year in question was 1913 -- the following year, having lied about his age and enlisted, he was in the trenches in France, no doubt clinging to every memory of pleasure and sanity that he could. Perhaps he decided then that if he ever got home again, rather than follow the tradition of going to Morecambe once a year for wakes week, he would not settle for anything less than making his life there.

A couple of years ago, I loaded my blacksmith's tools into my trailer, and drove to Andalucia.It's too far to cycle.

Your story of Morecombe really brought back some great memories. Thank you for that!I had a female acquaintance from Morecombe who came over to the States to spend a bit of time and stayed with me for a couple of weeks. She had a Yamaha Diversion 600 in England that she liked to ride up to the Lake District, so she came over here to try out the SoCal Mountains. I had Honda Hawk, the GB500 and the Nortless then, so she and I would usually take the Hawk (me) and the GB (She) ,as the Nortless was way too uncomfortable for long rides. We made about 5 250+ mile rides in those few days and really had some good times. Just to shake things up, we did a hot air balloon ride. She really make that time wonderful and made me want to go over to England. Alas, other things came up and we never did get back together. Still haven't made it to England.Bare

Sunbeem, I don't know where you came from, because your post count is really low, but you showed up at just the right time. Your stories are inspirational and beautiful. I have always wanted to see the English countryside, the rolling hills and the old castles and estates... the small villages... everything. I have seen some of My beautiful country and I sure hope I can see some of yours, and some of everyones homeland for that matter.

I am clinging to a dream of becoming a seaplane pilot and finding a big enough seaplane that I can load my Enfield and a bicycle in her along with a dog and maybe if I am lucky a beautiful girl for a copilot, but I hear they are doing amazing things teaching dogs to drive, so maybe I can teach him to fly.

I think I will die if I don't get to live a "bigger" life... I just feel like I am meant for so much more than couch depression and tv movies...

All it takes is money! That's why I ride an Enfield, I don't have much of that any more. I spent it all on those previously owned motorbikes and airplanes and other incidental expenses. Never had any great desire to make money, but I was pretty good at getting rid of it! Had no reason to save it, everyone told me I was going to kill myself! At least I have had a lot of great experiences in my life that I wouldn't trade anything for, and the Enfield is a great source of joy, still!Bare

Well GreenForce, I'm not entirely sure where I came from either, but I'm glad my ramblings seem to be appropriate.Concerning your travel plans, I would encourage you to consider a dream which a friend once had. In it she travelled the world with a bicycle, an umbrella, and a frying pan. Since a (dry) fried egg sandwich can usually be sold for a greater sum than the cost of the ingredients, she had no trouble getting around.I'm sure you will carefully assess the fiscal possibilities of a sea-plane, dog, motorcycle, and pretty girl, and come up with your own formula for success -- though life may be more complicated than if you had embarked on a walking tour.

It seems we like the same aspects of England, I'm fascinated by our ancient history also, there was a sophisticated and highly educated population here before the Roman Invasion, they built Stonehenge to prove forever the complexity of their knowledge, yet the "regular" academics prefer to prolong the lie that we lived savage brutal lives in caves before being civilised by Rome. Before, our God was present in everything, the whole world was sacred -- after, we had an angry old guy in the sky to deal with, and no respect for our earthly surroundings.

For me, the stone circles of England really are a portal, and I'm slowly learning to use dowsing rods and pendulum to trace the ley lines which connect them.

I'm very pleased to hear that what I wrote was meaningful for you, life is such a miraculous affair, so little understood, and all we have is words ... I'm trying to point to the moon, to it's ephemeral beauty - and all I have is this gnarled grubby old finger.

So, in case anyone gets my drift, I'd like to tell you about the Jackdaws - and of course, (like shortbread, where the length is immaterial, and it's not bread) - it's not really about birds at all.

Watching the jackdaws - it's an inevitable pastime , they live out their lives all around me. Nesting in the trees to the north and west, on chimneystacks in the east and south, and in the air vents and spare chimneys of our house, they confirm the fact that any building becomes part of the landscape. No escape. Congregating and dispersing to some subtle and complex tune I can't hear, sailing effortless or battling the wind, I often wonder what logic determines their flights, and whether when huddled behind the shelter of a chimneypot, they feel as disgruntled as they look. Especially days like today -- low cloud just above the rooftops, and everything dripping, soaking and cold in the winter's mist.

Just down the road, is Crow Trees Wood, where crows are outnumbered 50 to 1 by jackdaws. Perhaps those who named woods in this district were unaware of the solitary nature of the crow, or the helpful old saying that if you see a group of crows, they're rooks, and if you see a solitary rook, it's a crow. Or perhaps they were more sensitive to poetic meter than ornithological precision, since Jackdaw Trees Wood lacks the necessary crispness, having the extra syllable .

It could be that the mild autumn is giving rise to a plague of parasites, and as yet there are few active chimneys for smoking out the fleas, but certainly the choreography has undergone an eerie change of late. Roosting in pairs, they usually perch a couple of feet apart so that wings can be stretched without acrimony, but recently a new togetherness has become the rule, and much mutual preening goes on as they now perch shoulder to shoulder.

This outbreak of avian solidarity has me wondering if they know something about 2013 that I don't, -- a question which is answered in the mere act of phrasing it, since I know nothing, and they know everything they need, except perhaps that when they huddle closer together, my world also becomes a little more sombre and harsh.

This colony is by no means isolated, but part of a larger cohesive society. Not for jackdaws our clinging to tribal insularity - though territorial, they are connected and interconnected, and a great deal of visiting is the norm.Some days other colonies come winging through the mist, and set up several temporary headquarters in adjacent woodlands. Then the emissaries begin, singly and in groups, to move between the various focal points, the air not only sustaining their wings, but serving as the vehicle for their calls which continue throughout the day. These occasions have an air of purpose, an atmosphere of conference and resolve for the corvid cause. To call it a parliament would give the idea, but these aerial activities reveal a beauty and dignity which differentiate them from the actions of our politicians.

Not that they need to voice their thoughts, for this is no disorganised rabble, but a composite being - able to operate on both the individual and the collective level, a group able to take flight as one without discernible cause. Viewing them as mere individuals only indicates my own frequent lack of awareness and the continuing legacy of my hubristic humanity. We are all connected, -- ask the Jackdaws.

Surely there is something for me to learn from their perfect synchrony of the collective and the individual, using the benefits of each while I often suffer the worst of both worlds? Wouldn't it be easier to love my neighbour, if my life were truly illuminated by the awareness that we are all made of the same stuff, and part of the same thing ?

When a fledgling's first flight from the nest under our eaves ended prematurely on next-door's compost heap owing to a length of string and nest material firmly knotted round it's ankle, I went over to try and free the hapless aviator. As I picked it up, the rest of the jackdaws set up a racket, and swooped down as if to effect a rescue, making the untangling a difficult process, but after cutting the string -- so much thicker than the young ankle, at last I could lift the bird aloft, and watch it's more successful second flight and subsequent ascent into a tall beech tree to join it's anxious parents.

Yes - although they feel an enmity borne of old, I still try to gain their favour, and convince them of my inhuman kindness, my willingness to share the world gladly with them. My offerings however, cut no ice with the corvid. Brief eye-contact tells me they are all too aware of the activities of my species, and as one of that group, I am still feared and avoided with the rest.

But what they give me, is so much more valuable than the bread I give them. We are all connected.Ask the jackdaws.

I saw where the new highway overlapped the old road, I saw where it diverged, and I saw where it was swallowed up by the desert after becoming an unused section of nothingness... I saw telegraph poles off in the distance that went for miles along the ghost of the road, indicating that, once upon a great time... there had been a two lane, path of American dreams.

In the summer of 2010, the tour I was on before this one ended in Los Angeles. The last ten weeks of the tour were laid out in such a fashion as I could drive my own car from city to city, rather than rely on Company Transportation, which left me in Hollywood with my own wheels; a Smart Fortwo convertible (Everyone should own at least one ragtop)...

The last weekend of the tour, my girlfriend flew out from home in Michigan to hang out with us, and after we closed the last show and loaded out of the Pantages Theatre, which left me with a bank account filled with un-cashed salary checks (I was able to live on my per diem and bank my salary), and no particular place to go & no particular time I had to be there...

And so we decided to live an old dream of mine. We got up at sunrise the morning after the show loaded out, drove down to Santa Monica Pier and took our pictures in Will Rogers Park, and set out on old Route 66 eastbound (otherwise known locally as Santa Monica Blvd). We spent the next three weeks driving as much of the Mother Road as is humanly possible to still locate - backtracks, alternate alignments, and everything - between Los Angeles and Chicago, documenting the entire journey across Time and Geography.

It was, in a word, spectacular. Truly the roadtrip of a lifetime. As much as the interstate system has bypassed America, much of it, dare I say most of it, is still out there, stubbornly refusing to curl up and die. And I can't wait to do more trips like that - we're looking at the Lewis & Clark Trail next, perhaps on the Enfield (to keep it on topic)...

Watch Billy Connolly's Route 66. You will want to jump on your bike and visit all the small towns made irrelevant by super slabs. Lots of great biker folks out there that will bend over backwards for other bikers (maybe a few cagers too). I don't know that I would just ride off into the sunset with no real plan. Even if I was in a financial situation where I could just pull up stakes and fly, I would have a game plan. Ride loose because plans change, which is what makes road trips so much fun.

Still thinkin bout it... weathers been too crappy til today... gonna get the bike out as soon as it hits 50 again. bundle up tight and see how I feel. If I am comfy loaded down the way I might be... I just might make a go of it.

Things at "home" are all buggered up so I gotta do something...

can't find the answers, I listen to Chapin and Tull, and Buffett, and a lot more... and that's about all that's keeping me together.

Maybe I could map out a route that passes by somma the forum members' place's that would be willing to put me on the couch for a night or two and we could swap stories and whatever work I could do for them for food and board... I really don't know what the heck else to do...

Summary...

Bad Breakup...

It Fuggin hurts...

Gotta roll me away...

gotta do something...

Sure as hell can't stay.

Logged

"Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugsand prays that he always will.

But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys all of his mates are doing time:

Married with three kids up by the ring roadsold their souls straight down the line.